


Saboteur’s Choice

by Cryptographic_Delurk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Background Isabela/Merrill, Crack Lite, Gen, Justice (Dragon Age) Positive, M/M, Multi, Past Danarius/Fenris (Dragon Age), Religious Content, Romantic Comedy, Sabotage, like Hawke is coming on super strong and Sebastian is oblivious but I believe in them, the SebHawke is Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptographic_Delurk/pseuds/Cryptographic_Delurk
Summary: When Anders gets in the middle of Sebastian’s attempts to discuss religious faith with Fenris, Sebastian comes to believe Anders’s intent is to turn Fenris away from the Maker. A misconception that is only strengthened when Anders and Fenris appear to be getting along better than ever before.Includes whacky misunderstandings, romcom hijinks, a few angsty twists, and a redemption arc that will put Hessarian to shame.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age), Fenris & Sebastian Vael, Male Hawke/Sebastian Vael
Comments: 34
Kudos: 63





	1. INTRODUCTION

**Author's Note:**

> This is a response to [this kink meme prompt](https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/91059.html?thread=366394035). This is perhaps more Sebastian-centric and (ultimately) Sebastian-positive than the prompt would indicate, but I believe I got in all the bonuses.
> 
> Read & Relax.

The dogs laid down in the dirt, with lolled tongues and red gashes against their tan hides. And that was where they died.

Hawke and Varric were busy looting the bodies of the bandits they had slain, and Anders was shouting at them to pass over any lyrium potions they found, but Sebastian had little interest in the worldly possessions of the fallen. He pressed his palms together and invited the Maker to their side.

_Though all before us is shadow,  
Yet shall the Maker shall be your guide.  
You shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.  
For there is no darkness, nor death, in the Maker's Light  
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

He was halfway through Trials 1:14, when Fenris padded to his side. Sebastian smiled, and watched Fenris from the corner of his eye as he finished reciting the verse. Fenris stood, with stiff shoulders and the point of his bloodied sword edged in the dirt. He was silent, but observed the Mabari hounds and Sebastian’s prayers with melancholic respect.

When Sebastian finished, he fitted his friend with a smile. “Do you know the words?” he asked gently. “If you like, we could recite it together next time.”

Fenris had no immediate response to this, but followed at Sebastian’s side as he strolled to catch up with the others along the sandy dunes of the Wounded Coast. “So far as I was aware, the Chantry does not believe dogs have souls to return to the Maker’s side.”

Sebastian laughed easily. “I am sure my Brothers and Sisters in Ferelden would disagree. I am not sure myself, but I would like to believe. It is difficult to look at Hawke’s pup and believe him without a soul.”

“He is a noble and intelligent beast,” Fenris agreed.

“A dog cares nothing for worldly power,” Sebastian professed. “The Maker would have us learn from them… I do not believe he would reject his creations.”

Fenris seemed to contemplate this. “So your Maker would even accept animals to his side… A comforting thought.”

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. “He would not punish them for the ills they did at their masters’ beckoning,” he said, speaking of the bandits.

“…A comforting thought,” Fenris repeated stiffly.

They walked for a while in companionable silence, a short distance behind the others. The sun was high and warm in the sky, and its light split and reflected in blinding shimmers off the sea. It was a beautiful day, and Sebastian liked that Fenris seemed ready to simply live and appreciate these moments, even as the rest of their companions chattered and argued over the location of the bandit cave and Anders’s constant attempts to halt the party as he collected medicinal herbs. Fenris’s eyes scanning the horizon, and he didn’t speak as he observed the splendour the Maker had laid before them.

“Have you reconsidered?” Sebastian asked him, at a lull in their path across the dune. “Have you reconsidered your place as an Andrastian?”

Fenris groaned. “Not this again.”

“Surely you know the truth in your heart. You cannot believe all the wonders about us are simple coincidence?”

“Why not?” Fenris shrugged. “You’d have me believe all the horrors are.”

“It is not an accident when we chose to use the Maker’s gifts for evil. Or for good.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris said.

There was another moment of silence between them, as Varric demonstrated Bianca’s proficiency as a nutcracker.

“I saw you at the Chantry again,” Sebastian said.

“Must we do this?” Fenris said.

“You were praying.”

“…”

“You’ve given thought to what I’ve said,” Sebastian said, assuredly. “That perhaps the Maker allowed the circumstances of your escape.”

“I-” Fenris seemed to struggle to swallow this. His Adam's apple bobbed, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough and raw. “Is that what you’d have me believe?” he demanded, with something like a whimper. “Do you think the moment of my escape a happy one? Should I be ‘joyous’ that the Maker allowed me opportunity to escape and I used it to- Or am I supposed to believe that was part of his plan as well? That he would sacrifice-”

Fenris choked on the words, but Sebastian’s eyed him avidly. Finally, it seemed, Fenris was ready to speak of this frankly, and the wound it had left on him lanced and healed.

“Andraste’s tits- Will you _shut up_?!”

Fenris flinched, and his mouth immediately snapped shut. But it seemed Anders, who bustled up next to them in a flurry of feathers and fury, was not talking to the one among them that had spoken last.

He rounded on Sebastian with an ugly scowl.

“A caravan of eight was murdered. We’re searching for the bandits who did it. And you’re here lecturing about the Maker like that will help any?”

“Perhaps you’ll find the bandits in the sand with the patches of Harlot’s Blush weed.” Sebastian frowned. “Or perhaps it is faith in the Maker, that will lead us to them, and their retribution.”

Anders rolled his eyes.

“The Maker is gone,” he said with finality. “He left us to our own devices generations ago. He's never going to step back in, start listening to our prayers.”

“I believe you are interrupting a private conversation,” Sebastian said stonily. Before looking to Fenris with a smile, warm and expectant.

But his face fell when Fenris would not meet his eye. Fenris glanced at Anders’s sleeve, to the ground, then to the side and front where Varric was. And then he was gone, loping up the dune in a carefully measured jog. Sebastian caught the end of his call. “Varric, do you have my letters?”

Sebastian felt the sting of betrayal, and he longed to reach out and call for his friend. But before he could, Anders side stepped, cutting off Sebastian’s view of Fenris.

Anders laid one hand on his hip, tilted his head up, and fitted himself with a smile as smug and sadistic as the Blight itself. And then he swept away, jogging up to Hawke’s side, and leaving Sebastian utterly alone.

This humiliation would have been easier to bear if it happened only once.

Sebastian tried multiple times throughout the day to approach Fenris and question him. To find an explanation. Perhaps even appease him and offer apology. But it seemed every time he tried, Anders was there, spouting some blasphemy to redirect Sebastian’s attention.

“Do not believe I do not know what you are doing,” Sebastian warned, after Anders finished listing all the parts of a Broodmother he’d like to see stuffed up the Maker’s arse. “You are getting between two friends for your own cruel amusements.”

“Am I?” Anders batted his eyes innocently. He was walking backwards ahead of Sebastian and, regretfully, seemed to be in no danger of tripping over his own boots. He was holding Sebastian’s gaze relentlessly and followed every time Sebastian attempted to look away. “Me? Get between you two? Would I _dare_?” he asked. “A good little mage like me?”

“I believe you would,” Sebastian said firmly.

“You know what I believe?” Anders asked. He spun around and lifted the back of his coat. “I believe Andraste can kiss my pearly white ass.” And before Sebastian could make any sense of it, he thrust his butt back, so the seat of his trousers bumped against Sebastian’s belt buckle.

Sebastian was still sputtering in horror when Hawke finally approached.

“Alright, that’s enough, Anders.” He shooed the apostate off, and wrapped one arm around Sebastian’s shoulder. “Hands off the goods. You haven’t paid for ‘em, and we both know you’re not going to. Haven’t got the coin.”

“You’re no fun, Hawke,” Anders pouted, but he threw Sebastian a wink and a little wave before he sauntered off.

Hawke took the opportunity to spin Sebastian against his shoulder and walk him to the edge of the stony outcropping they’d found themselves on.

“We’re going to set up camp here,” Hawke said. “No point in searching out more trouble today when we can barely see in front of our own faces.”

It was true. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and while the sky was still glowing blue in the twilight, you could already see the stars patterning the sky.

“Would you show me the constellations again?” Hawke asked Sebastian, sitting them both at the side of the ridge. “Forget about the others for the night.”

Sebastian sighed. “Hawke, I’ve shown you the constellations a dozen times. They cannot be that different from the ones you had in Ferelden.”

“They are,” Hawke said, wrapping his arm around Sebastian’s.

“I showed all of them to you last week. You can’t have forgotten already?”

“Funny that.” Hawke leaned his face down against Sebastian’s shoulder, so his stubble scratched Sebastian’s chin.

Sebastian sighed. But he was grateful to be given a distraction from the trials of the day, and to be here with a friend to watch the stars. So he pointed up to the cosmos, and started from the top.

==

“Well that was a very long day,” Anders huffed, as he took a seat at the campfire next to where Fenris was perched. “Thank the Maker that Hawke finally took Prince Holier-Than-Thou aside. I thought he’d never shut his blighted mouth.”

Anders was unlacing his boots, and not looking at him, but there were few other people he could have been speaking to.

“You should not call him names,” Fenris asserted softly.

Anders huffed. “I’ll call him worse than that.”

“Fair enough,” Fenris snorted. He could not bring himself to fight today.

They sat in silence for a moment. Fenris snapped the last of the kindling and threw it to the flames. Anders was casting a softly glowing spell to dry his socks.

“You did not have to do that for me,” Fenris finally said, after a long moment.

Anders snorted. “Do what for you?”

“It is unbecoming to play the fool. You saw that I did not wish to continue my discussion with Sebastian. But I can handle myself. You did not need to intervene on my behalf.”

“Who said it was on your behalf?” Anders huffed a laugh. “Perhaps I no more wished to listen to his proselytising than you… Let me say it this way- Seven escape attempts, nearly a year in solitary, and in the end it took a breakout of abominations and me sticking my nose in a goblet of taint to get the Templars off my back. If the Maker is responsible for my escape from the Circle, he did a piss poor job of making it happen.”

Fenris let out a wry little laugh himself. He did not often understand Anders’s talk of the Circle, but he understood the broad strokes of Anders’s sentiment. If the Maker was responsible for Fenris’s successes, he was indeed doing a ‘piss poor job’.

Fenris turned his head to Anders. “You know, when I pay you the compliment of having been kind or generous, you’d do better to accept it,” Fenris offered.

“Oh, was that you trying to be complimentary?” Anders said wryly. He rested his chin against a propped hand, as he peered up at Fenris, and drew his index finger over his stubble. “And I should graciously accept it?”

It was a gamble, in a way. The mage was difficult to read, and there was no telling if he was eager to throw anything Fenris offered back in his face. But for some reason, in that moment, Fenris felt he could be brave.

“Yes,” he said simply, “you should.”

It was strange watching the mage’s face pique in confusion, and then slowly relax and blossom into a smile. “Then you should graciously accept my help, and not tell me I didn’t need to intervene.”

Fenris pursed his lips, and swallowed an uneasy constriction in the back of his throat. He supposed the mage had a point. “Very well,” he agreed. “I shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: When beseeching the Maker provides no guidance, Sebastian is forced to ask his friends for counsel. Unfortunately his friends suck.


	2. ESCALATION

They found the bandit hideout the next day, killed an unholy amount of people routing it, and then had the trouble of the dead bandits’ wives and children in the back caves.

“If you go to Kirkwall’s Chantry, they will find a way to provide for you,” Sebastian offered, in as comforting a voice as he could.

“Because it’s not intimidating at all for a bunch of foreigners to climb a thousand steps and walk past every guard in Hightown to beg for some bread.” Anders was scribbling something on a bit of parchment, using the top of Varric’s head as desk. “If you go to this location and ask for Lirene, she might be able to arrange work and shelter for you.” He attempted to hand the note over to the waifs, and they jumped away from it, as if it might burn them as surely as his staff.

“Because this profiteer of yours is much better suited to help than an organisation well-tried-and-tested in carrying out charitable works in the name of the Maker,” Sebastian said serenely.

Anders looked about ready to begin shouting, when Hawke plucked the parchment from him. He flipped it over and, borrowing Varric’s quill, scritched a few thin lined characters. “You can never have too many contacts when you’re trying to get by in Kirkwall,” he said gruffly.

“And nobody would know that better than you, Hawke,” Varric chuckled.

Hawke frowned, before flapping the parchment at the woman in front of him. “Take it. And your husbands’ murderers will leave you be.”

Sebastian shook his head. He’d known Hawke long enough to know this wasn’t a threat. This was Hawke trying to be gentle. But he also knew it was fear that motivated the woman to reach out and pluck the note from him.

They turned on their heel and went to exit the cavern. Fenris was already at the entrance of the hideout, and staring down the waifs behind them, as if they might strike while Hawke’s back was turned. He did not abandon his vigil and turn to follow, until all of them had passed.

Once they were far enough away from the hideout, and back through the cave system, Varric spoke up. “Geez, Hawke, you didn’t have to put it like that.”

Hawke grunted moodily. But Fenris was the one who spoke up.

“Why not?” he shrugged. “It was true.”

All in all, it wasn’t the most uplifting of the adventures Sebastian had gone on with Hawke. It was a long road back to Kirkwall, and passed mostly in contemplative silence save for the quiet hum of Sebastian’s prayers, Anders’s intermittent requests for breaks to gather more herbs, and the off-colour joke from Varric.

It wasn’t until they were nearly back at the city, when Sebastian recalled the whole business with Fenris the day before. And they were at the gates before he decided what to do about it.

The others were begging their leave of one another, and confirming their next appointment for Wicked Grace, when Sebastian jogged to Fenris’s side. “Fenris, may I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course, Sebastian,” Fenris said, pulling away from the others and turning to him with tired eyes that were, nonetheless, affording Sebastian the entirety of his attention. “Speak your mind.”

“About yesterday-” Sebastian fidgeted. “I am concerned I had in some way offended you,” he began magnanimously.

“It was…” Fenris seemed to hesitate. “It was nothing. If you fear you have angered me, do not. You have been a good friend, and kind to me when many have not seen the need.” Fenris pursed his lips. “In fact, I may have not been a gracious friend yesterday myself. I was distressed, but did not mean to abandon the, erm, conversation the way I had.”

“There is no need to apologise,” Sebastian offered. “We are all overwhelmed at times.”

“Good,” Fenris nodded. The edge of his lip curled in a peculiar expression, which Sebastian had learned to take for a smile. “We can speak of it more some other time. Today was… trying. I will need to rest before I am further indisposed. Will you be at the Hanged Man tomorrow night?”

“Of course.”

Sebastian was about to offer his goodbyes when Anders swept up with a suspicious frown. “Is everything okay over here? Everyone behaving?”

Truly Anders was the only one among them at risk of misbehaviour, but Fenris seemed willing to indulge this in a way that Sebastian wasn’t. “Everything is fine,” Fenris snorted. “We were just wishing each other a good evening.”

“Oh? Good then,” Anders relaxed.

Fenris snorted again. “Shouldn’t you be on your way, mage? Don’t you have every invalid in Darktown to go check on?”

“Every single one of them,” Anders said with faux solemnity. “And each more gracious than you.”

“Hmm,” Fenris offered non-committally. And it would not have worried Sebastian, if not for that Fenris fixed Anders with the same peculiar look and curl of his lip that he had offered Sebastian a moment before. “Have a good night, Sebastian,” he offered, before crossing to the other side of the walkway and towards the stairs that Sebastian knew Fenris took up to his manor, narrower and more secluded than those that climbed directly through the Hightown Market.

Anders offered Sebastian no farewells, but followed at Fenris’s side, swarming like a bee until Fenris seemed to get sick of him. He turned Anders by the arm, shoved his back lightly so he was sent walking in the opposite direction, before waving an arm in one last lazy farewell to them both.

 _Odd_.

==

Although Sebastian had gone to sleep late, he woke before six in the morning, in time for the morning recitations of the Chant. He was not sure if it was diligence and discipline, or simply that he could find no respite from the events of the last few days, but there was no arguing with how many sections were burned out of the candle clock posted to his wall. He brushed back his hair and dressed himself simply in Chantry robes, before filing out into the halls.

Several of his fellow brothers and sisters greeted him in hushed voices, welcoming him back to Kirkwall after several days out on the coast. Sebastian answered with thanks and smiles, but conversations died a little too quickly and easily, as they ushered themselves in the main hall of the cathedral. They lined up, and began from Benedictions when Grand Cleric Elthina had a torch lit and passed to the first Chanter.

Each Chanter sang in line, until they could no longer, and passed the torch to the next. The Chantry Bells would chime the hours at seven, eight, nine. And Sebastian knew it would be at least one chime of that bell before he was given the opportunity to sing himself.

He listened faithfully, enjoying the variation in the voices of the other Chanters. Held back a laugh when the bell for the seventh hour rang, and the sister that was singing raised her voice instinctively to match the ringing pitch of the pealing metal. And every so often he tried to catch Elthina’s eye. He wanted her to see he was here, early and dependable as sun and day, devoted and faithful even now that his future in the Chantry was so unsure. But she stood on the pulpit, and looked forward impassively.

But of course, it was selfish of him to want her to take notice. He was only doing what was expected of him. The torch was passed to him. It was his turn to sing:

_Blessed are they who hold their faith  
Though the days be long and dark.  
Blessed are the mothers and fathers  
Who lead their children to safety and not scorn.  
Blessed are they who stand before  
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.  
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

Sebastian found singing the Chant meditative and calming. It emptied his mind, and let him be filled with the pure will of the Maker. He sang until his voice left him, and passed the torch on. But whatever all-knowing consciousness the Maker bestowed onto him during these moments, it was gone just as soon as soon as his recitation ended.

They wrapped up around Benedictions Stanza Six – to be continued during evening recitations. Although Sebastian had a prior engagement. His fellow brothers and sisters bowed and departed to go about their duties, now more numerous than usual with the events of the upcoming weekend.

Sebastian was left lacking. He realised he wanted someone to discuss matters with. But many of his brothers and sisters in the Chantry held him at arm’s length. Perhaps it was at Elthina’s advisement, or simply the intimidation of talking freely with the last of Starkhaven’s royal house. Or perhaps it was Sebastian that held _them_ at arm’s length. Truth be told he did not trust them as he once did. Petrice’s former sympathisers had long since burnt any incriminating missives, buried their complaints, and crawled back into the woodworks. But if they had considered betraying Elthina once before, who was to say they would not do so again.

The only other person within the Chantry left to talk to was Elthina herself. But- Even if it was only blind arrogance, Sebastian thought he had a pretty good idea of what she might say to him already: She wanted him to return to Starkhaven and reclaim the throne, he knew. She had called him rash and selfish the day he left the Chantry, and called him rash and selfish now having returned to it. And truly it seemed that no matter what Sebastian did, he would do so selfishly. To return to Starkhaven’s throne was to feed his lust for power. To stay in the Chantry was to feed his lust for a simpler, more leisurely life. He could use his birthright in Starkhaven to increase the scope the Chantry’s influence, and he knew this was what Elthina wished of him.

But at the expense of what else? Would he be a good ruler? Could the kind of man who broke his vows be a good ruler? Did what Sebastian wish for himself truly matter so little?

They were questions he had asked himself over and over, to no avail. And it seemed unlikely that today would be the day of his epiphany. But, thankfully, Sebastian had other friends and other concerns to occupy himself with. And, with that to look forward to, he went about archery practice, his correspondence, and readying himself for the upcoming evening.

==

“Oh, it’s you.”

Varric stood in the doorway to his room at the Hanged Man like a blockade, arms crossed and legs shoulder width apart. Sebastian did not have the heart to point out he could probably step in the room over the other man, if he desired.

“Good to see you as well, Varric,” Sebastian replied mildly.

Varric sighed and stepped aside. “Well, I suppose you’re not going anywhere until Wicked Grace is over. He took a seat at his table, and waved Sebastian in. “What is it, Choir Boy? This better not be about Bianca’s cocking ring again.”

“I would never dream of touching your sweet lady without your permission, my friend,” Sebastian said, trying to ease into the rules of this game.

“Not your friend,” Varric protested with a small huff. Indeed they were not. Varric went on to fold closed the tabulated catalogue of ledgers on his table. He corked a bottle of ink. “This about the bandits yesterday?” he hypothesised. “You looked down at the blood on your hands, the families of the people you murdered, and had a crisis of faith? Then the Maker appeared to you in a vision and promised to grant you three wishes? You asked for penance, foresight, and a fleshlight, and are now planning to fuck off to a monastery in the Anderfels?”

“Nothing that dramatic, I’m afraid,” Sebastian laughed, dropping into the seat across from Varric.

“If only we were so lucky…” Varric murmured.

“I enjoy our outings with Hawke,” Sebastian said. “It seems he's involved every time there's a crisis in Kirkwall. I've never had so many opportunities to help people!”

“Are you for real?” Varric snorted. “I suppose Hawke’s never met a situation he couldn’t help by putting someone in the ground.”

“…The families of those bandits were given leave to pursue a better path. It did not escape my notice that some were beaten and held against their will… I can only hope the Maker has a plan for them, as for us all.”

“Yeah, right,” Varric scoffed. He tapped his fingers idly against the table. “So what are you here about then, Choir Boy? It can’t only be to bore me to tears.”

Sebastian sat up straight in his seat. “I am sure you took note of the disagreement I had with the apostate yesterday?”

“Did I?” Varric snickered.

“I believe he is trying to intervene in my friendship with Fenris. He interrupts every time I wish to speak with him privately. And they seemed abnormally at ease with one another the day before… I am not sure what words they exchanged, or why Fenris would be convinced by them. I was wondering if you had any insights into the situation.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Varric laughed. “What is this – jealousy? Or did someone poison your holy water this morning? You’re worried that Broody and Blondie are getting along too well? They don’t need help _not_ getting along. They do that all by themselves.”

 _Was he jealous? Perhaps jealous of the fact that Anders may have Fenris’s ear, when Sebastian tried and failed to get through to him?_ Sebastian laughed weakly and considered that he might, in fact, be imagining problems where none existed. Fenris and Anders certainly seemed in no danger of getting along most days. “Perhaps you are-”

“Unless…” Varric said with sudden solemnity.

Sebastian frowned. “Unless what?”

“Well, Blondie is an apostate mage, and certain apostate mages are known for being rather… persuasive…”

The implication of this sunk in slowly.

“You cannot think that Anders would go so far as to thrall one among us,” Sebastian protested.

“Oh, I don’t know, Choir Boy?” Varric said. “He is awfully desperate to convince people of the injustice of the Circles and yadda yadda. And, well, you’ve never been down to his pad in Darktown have you?”

Sebastian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had not. Hawke had never taken him there. “You cannot be serious.”

“You didn’t know?” Varric said aghast. “The things Anders and his underground get up to down there… They’re always smuggling in extra lyrium to drug the templars before they do their raids on the Gallows. And that can’t be all they’re doing, with all the human bits Anders has stacked in jars against his wall.” Varric shuddered. “What’s addling the mind of one elf compared to that?”

“Varric,” Sebastian warned.

“And when the moon is full they all get in this big circle – glyphs painted on the ground and everything – and sacrifice baby nugs trying to summon the Old Gods! Pft!” Varric could no longer keep the smile off his face. “I really had you going for while, didn’t I?”

“You lost me when you started on the jars of body parts, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, that part was true.” Varric whistled. “Pretty sure he’s got a collection of baby teeth going at the very least.”

“I think you’ve helped about all you’re liable to,” Sebastian allowed, standing from his seat and pressing the chair firmly to the table.

“Can’t argue with you there,” Varric agreed. “Go on downstairs. I’ll meet you in the lounge with the rest of them shortly.”

Sebastian gave his thanks, for Varric’s time if nothing else, and headed down the stairs feeling a bit dejected.

The Hanged Man was reasonably crowded at this time, and Sebastian felt a little overwhelmed between the crowd and the noise and the too-dry air that radiated out of the hearth. He headed down to their usual table, and found it still mostly empty. No doubt it would have been swooped up by now, if Isabela hadn’t planted herself at the head of the bench and watched it jealously. Merrill was next to her, clutching a tankard with a furious pout.

“Looking for Hawke?” Isabela asked. She scooted over in her seat, pressing Merrill further along the bench at her side, and pushed a tankard of putrid smelling liquid over to Sebastian. “He’s not here yet.” She fixed Sebastian with an appraising look. “It’s unusual for you to be here so early. But good to have you down here slumming it with the rest of us~”

Sebastian laughed easily. “Good to be here.” He took the seat and the tankard she offered him graciously. “There was a matter that was concerning me. I arrived early to seek a second opinion from our mutual acquaintance.”

“You mean Varric?” Isabela snorted. “Can’t imagine he was much help.”

Sebastian sighed, taking a long drink of the Hanged Man’s swill. “No,” he admitted. “But I could not help but try. Some days even all the light of the Chantry can not illuminate one’s path.”

Merrill, who had been chugging her own draught at surprising speed for such a small elf, clanked the tankard against the table. “Ooh, what is your Chantry even good for?” she snarled, before climbing partway into Isabela’s lap and rubbing against the woman’s side. “What does it do? Except for singing a bunch of things that are sometimes pretty but mostly mean.”

As any good brother of the faith would, Sebastian took this as an opportunity to educate the wayward. “The Chantry does many charitable works,” he professed. “It cares for widows and orphans-”

“Who in the Dalish would just be part of the clan, like everyone else.” Merrill harrumphed. “I know what your Chantry does. You know it too, you just pretend you don’t. You know of the destruction of the Dales,” she accused. “Your Chantry goes on marches and bullies anyone who doesn’t agree with them. You make promises to the People and then destroy their homes and their families when their guard is down. Your templars march on Dalish camps and steal their Keepers and children. And then you lock them in your towers and brainwash them until they’re terrible people like Anders.”

Sebastian was not sure he understood all of this. But he knew of Shartan and the Dales, at least, and that a terrible wrong had been committed in Andraste’s name. “The Chantry has erred,” he agreed sadly. “But that does not mean it serves no function.”

Merrill was muttering darkly into Isabela’s skin. And Isabela took the chance to gently brush Merrill’s brow and rake a hand through her hair. “Kitten, perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to drink.”

“It’s awful,” Merrill mumbled. “It does no good. They should just burn the whole thing down. And Anders- He likes to compare himself to Andraste sometimes. And she burned in the story, right? …We’ll burn the Chantry.” She sniffled. “And Anders can burn a little bit too. As a treat.”

Isabela seized her, and Merrill let out an undignified squawk as her face was buried in Isabela’s chest.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Isabela laughed.

Sebastian blinked a few wide eyed blinks and despaired. He knew that Merrill was not an Andrastian, but he had no idea she was so far gone.

“Look, you can’t take Kitten seriously,” Isabela was saying, as Merrill straddled her lap and nuzzled into her chest. “She’s just in a sour mood because Anders spent the last hour and a half reciting verses of the Chant at her, trying to convince her to stop with her blood magic. I’m pretty sure that would sour anyone’s mood.” She giggled as Merrill snorted some muffled reply against her skin.

A lot of misunderstandings might have been cleared, and a lot of future trouble avoided, had Sebastian actually heard this. But so distressed was he by Merrill’s proclamations, that he could do nothing but stand and walk away in a daze.

He evaded the drink that sloughed off Norah’s tray as she passed, and dodged between rows of patrons on his way through the Hanged Man – all of them rough and dishonest characters, lost in their own hedonism. He was near the entrance of the tavern when he finally found someone he could trust – a friend.

Fenris was leaning with his back to the wall, arms crossed and a terrific scowl on his face. Anders was standing to his side, with one arm braced against the wall and that sadistic smile he wore when he was subjecting people to arguments they did not want to have.

“One wonders why you insist on asking me about Tevinter, if you only intend to disbelieve everything I have to say about it,” Fenris was snarling. “You muck about in idealistic hypotheticals with regards to things you know nothing about. I have seen what mages will do, given the power and freedom to do it. Why should I believe your mages any differ-?”

Whatever conversation was happening, Sebastian judged it less important than his concerns. He beelined for Fenris and interrupted. “It is our duty to tell the templars.”

Fenris coughed and turned to Sebastian with a few confused blinks.

“Excuse me?!” Anders demanded.

Fenris’s ears twitched and he seemed at this moment to catch on. His mouth hardened to a thin line. “Then why haven’t you done it?” he asked coldly.

Sebastian suddenly felt put on the spot. “I guess I was hoping…”

“That I would do it?” Fenris tilted his head expectantly. “And then you wouldn’t have to betray Hawke’s friends?” His eyes narrowed.

Sebastian looked to the side. It was true he felt a commitment to Hawke and his friends. But was it not a sin to let oneself shirk one’s social responsibilities because of such favouritism? “That’s not enough reason to allow a maleficar to walk free…” he reasoned.

“You think the templars don't know I'm here?” Anders laughed. “They just haven't caught me yet.”

“I was not speaking of you,” Sebastian said. Although he had been in some sense. “You should have heard what Merrill was saying a moment ago. She was raving against the Chantry, talking of burning the whole of it down.”

Fenris tilted his head to look past Sebastian at Merrill. Sebastian, too, turned to look.

Merrill was lolling back in her seat and tracing patterns into Isabela’s thigh. Isabela was laughing. She grabbed Merrill by the cheeks and kissed her forehead.

When Sebastian turned back, Fenris’s eyebrow was raised skeptically. “The witch is drunk,” he deadpanned. “She isn’t going to burn the Chantry down.”

“She could if she desired to,” Sebastian said worriedly. “She is a powerful blood mage… Which of us should do it? Shall we draw lots?”

“You absolute prig!” Anders snarled. “They’ll give her the brand!”

“We are not doing that,” Fenris said, much more calmly.

Sebastian opened his mouth to protest.

“No,” Fenris cut him off. “You seem to misunderstand how our mutual association works… We _could_ turn Isabela into the Qun. We _could_ turn the mage or the witch over to the templars. And I _could_ be turned over to the Imperium. But none of us are going to do that because we understand that, if we did, there would be no protection for the rest of us.” Fenris frowned. “Most of us here are fugitives from somewhere, and with none to fall back on but one another. Much less the favour of a Grand Cleric. I forget sometimes that you do not weather the same risks.”

Sebastian felt appropriately chastened. He supposed his own head was worth something to the politicians in Starkhaven. He and the rest of Hawke’s associates had, indeed, been brought together to protect one another.

“Perhaps you have drunk a bit too much yourself, Sebastian,” Fenris pondered. “I am willing to overlook this. But do not bring it up again.”

Sebastian nodded. “I believe you are right,” he admitted. Fenris was, indeed, a true friend, to steer him away from his worst impulses and set him on the right path. “I will refrain from such flights of paranoia in the future.”

“Well, I sure as hell won’t overlook it!” Anders cut in.

“Quiet,” Fenris said lazily. He raised a gauntleted hand, and with surprising care pressed his hand loosely atop Anders’s mouth and touched a finger softly to his nose. “You are not helping.”

Anders, in a fit of vindictive inanity, stuck out his tongue and pressed it to the inside of Fenris’s palm.

And, though Fenris had remained firm and unyielding throughout the whole of this rather tense conversation, this, of all things, was what made him startle and gape. He opened and closed his mouth dumbly, as Anders grabbed his hand and held Fenris’s eye as he licked the plane of it.

And then the moment passed. Anders released Fenris’s hand, with a small nod and edge of a smug smile pulling on his lip. And there would have been nothing to mark the occasion had Fenris not continued to hold his palm up, flexing his fingers open and closed, eyes clouded and blind, before-

“I have to go,” Fenris announced suddenly, pressing off the wall and adjusting his jacket and the scabbard of his greatsword. “Tell Hawke I- I- I have to go.”

Anders and Sebastian watched as he walked stiffly to the entrance and shoved a drunk out of the doorjamb. He slipped into the night without turning back.

“Well that was… unexpected,” Anders said ponderously, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “I didn’t think he had it in him, really.”

He looked across at Sebastian, animosity temporarily forgotten, as if Sebastian might have answers. Or a second opinion, at the very least.

But whatever Anders was looking for, he would have to find elsewhere. Sebastian had had no luck with answers the entire day. And now he simply shook his head and returned to the Wicked Grace table to wait for Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: A brother of the faith, an agnostic, an areligious theist, a Fade Spirit, an atheist, and Hawke walk into a Chantry fundraiser in Hightown.


	3. THE FIRST ATTEMPT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi~ Content warning: this chapter contains references to date rape drugs and substance abuse.
> 
> That’s all. I hope you enjoy~  
>   
> 

A great cloud of dust emitted from the chest, as Sebastian pried it open and dug through its contents. There were beads and musty smelling linens, the soles of old shoes and dishware decorated in the Amell crest. The remnants of pathological hoarding.

“Remind me. What exactly is it that I am looking for, Hawke?” Sebastian asked, as he dug through the latest of Leandra’s chests.

Hawke looked out of place – too stern a man for his red dressing robe and oven mitts, as he fussed about the kitchen. His Mabari, Barkfly, sat in the corner, waiting for any morsel of food that might fall.

“Whatever you think Gamlen or myself or your Chantry offering box might like,” Hawke said.

Sebastian laughed. “And how am I supposed to know what you and your uncle might like?”

“You can’t have a worse idea than I do,” Hawke said.

Sebastian would beg to differ, but he did Hawke the kindness of not challenging the point further. He sorted through the box and dug out a set of gold candelabra for the Chantry, and a few old letters for Hawke or his uncle to peruse. The rest of the chest safely appeared to be junk, and he set it to the side for burning, before looking through the next chest.

“It is a large estate. Have you ever thought about hiring a servant to help clean and keep it orderly?” Sebastian asked.

“No,” Hawke said. He was folding ingredients in a mixing bowl, and seemed to realise belatedly that his monosyllabic response had effectively cut off the conversation. “You’re over to help me anyhow,” he added. When this did not seem to make thing better, Hawke scowled at the mixing bowl as if its contents had personally offended him and he was determined to personally whip them into shape. “Not that I think of you as a servant,” he rushed out. “It’s just… nice… that you’re here.”

Sebastian took pity on him and laughed congenially. “We Brothers of the Chantry _do_ live to serve.”

“Right…” Hawke frowned. But he seemed to relax a little as he doled the contents of the mixing bowl out into a muffin pan.

Barkfly had grown too eager, and jumped up so his paws scratched the ledge of the counter. Hawke shoved him back down to the floor.

Sebastian looked through a chest that seemed to be filled entirely with mismatching brass buttons and thought about his parents’ things, and the estate he’d gone home to in Starkhaven. How much of it had been sorted by servants and picked through by vultures by the time he got there? And his poor cousin not understanding the half of what was going on! In a way he understood what Hawke was saying: would that he had had a friend to help him sort through the grief of it instead of a bunch of hirelings.

Thoughts of his parents proved distracting. Leandra’s latest sheathe of letters, unsent to Bethany in the Circle, detailed all sorts of minor frustrations and disappointments. _The crowd your brother runs with. And he won_ _’_ _t sit still or even string a sentence together for the matchmaker._ It was not hard to imagine his own parents penning something similar. They had always been disappointed in him for such a great number of things, starting with the drinking and whoring and petty jealousies with his brothers, and ending any number of places. He thought they’d be disappointed now – that he was sitting on his hands rather than committing to either the throne or the Chantry. That he was sitting in the home of a minor lord seeing to their tidying.

Elthina would also be disappointed. She had a to-do list a mile long, and none of it necessitated taking time away from the Chantry for this.

“Eat.” Hawke set a bowl of stew and a pair of cranberry muffins wrapped in a cloth napkin ahead of Sebastian on the kitchen bench. He dislodged another muffin from the pan, and batted it between his hands a moment before tossing it to the ground for Barkfly.

Sebastian sighed and swivelled around on the bench, stepping between where he’d spread the contents of the chests over the floor. The stew was thick, and bits of herb spotted the gravy. Sebastian watched them drift where he stirred the bowl with his spoon.

“You’re not eating,” Hawke pointed out, as he slid into the seat opposite Sebastian. His brow furrowed in frustration.

Sebastian set the spoon down and forced a smile. “I was merely thinking to the tasks I have set ahead of me for the weekend,” he admitted. “Everybody is so busy preparing for the fundraiser.” A thought occurred to him. “Will you be attending, Hawke?”

Hawke looked perplexed. “Attending the…?”

“Chantry fundraiser?” Sebastian said. “In the plaza towards Viscount’s Way? We’ve been stringing up lanterns for the event all week. You should have received an invitation weeks ago.”

There was a moment when Hawke stared blankly, and Sebastian remembered the pile of missives stacked over Hawke’s writing desk, toppling over onto the floor. Defaced at irregular intervals by coffee stains, Isabela’s graffiti, and scribbles from the apostate’s manifesto.

Sebastian laughed. “Well, I’m sure the Champion’s RSVP will be accepted late… Not that you’re under obligation to attend.”

“No, I‘ll go,” Hawke said quickly. He reached for Sebastian’s wrist in one hand, and braced himself against the side of the bench with the other.

Sebastian felt the indent of Hawke’s thumb on his wrist, and looked down to study its blunt nail. When he looked back up Hawke was hovering rather close, and Sebastian could make out the lines under his eyes and-

“Why don’t you bring Fenris along?” Sebastian said.

Barkfly let out a crisp bark, having thoroughly torn and devoured the muffin Hawke had given him.

Hawke blinked rather harshly. “Fenris?” he said stupidly. Then he sighed, dropped Sebastian’s wrist, and used the hand to massage his forehead. “You want me to bring Fenris with me?”

“To the fundraiser,” Sebastian nodded eagerly. And although he was not sure what had inspired him to open this line of inquest, the reasons seemed to be getting clearer all the time. “I think it might be fun for him, to see the Chantry is not merely the severity of the Chant.” And it would help undo the damage of whatever rhetoric the apostate had sought to fill his head with.

“The fundraiser,” Hawke said. “You, me, and… _Fenris…_?”

“Fenris,” Sebastian confirmed. “Will you be seeing him in the next couple days? Would you invite him for me?”

“Fenris…” Hawke repeated. For a moment, he sat on the other side of the bench and simply stared into space. Until, suddenly, he seemed to come to a decision on something. “Alright, I’ll invite Fenris.”

Sebastian smiled to himself, and picked up his soup spoon. The stew was warm and flavourful, and he was feeling better about himself already. Even if he wasn’t sure how else to help Starkhaven or the Chantry, he had insured the attendance of Kirkwall’s Champion at the fundraiser, and made progress bringing his friend Fenris to Andraste’s favour in the bargain. Surely, then, nobody could consider this a day wasted.

==

“Just what we needed – a last minute appearance by the Champion.” Elthina pulled her arms through the most formal of jackets to match the most formal of her Chantry robes, and shook her head disparagingly. “Trouble follows that man wherever he goes.”

“Should we not be pleased?” Sebastian frowned, as he folded her discarded shawl over his arm. He was lucky he had been given leave to wear his customary set of armour, after a little extra polishing. “Many in Kirkwall look up to the accomplishments of the Champion. Will they not follow his example in seeing his generosity at this event?”

Elthina scoffed. “Don’t be naïve, Sebastian. I know you count him among your friends, but he is as deft and dangerous a politician as any other that will show themselves tonight. Everyone wants something.”

“Is this about what he said to you?” Sebastian asked. He remembered the criticisms Hawke had levelled at her once in his fury about Bethany. Sebastian had been upset about it at the time too, but- “I would strive not to take it personally. Hawke is that indelicate in his words with everyone.”

“That is not the sort of ringing praise you seem to think it is,” Elthina said curtly. She waved a hand dismissively. “Enough of that, though. We’re short on hands and I need someone to check the elves have reign of the Keep’s kitchens, but not much else. And then to speak with the Captain of the Guard and make sure the Chantry premises are secure while we’re out in the plaza. Would you see to it, Sebastian?”

Sebastian gave a short bow, and parted ways with Elthina as she descend the steps into the plaza, followed by a short procession of Sisters, and a few of the Templar Order for security. The plaza was looking quite lovely the evening of the fundraiser. It was a warm summer’s eve, and the sky was alight with stars and the lanterns strung overhead from the balconies of the Keep. A great number of tables had been set out throughout the plaza for guests. As well as a stage for music and dancing. The pulpit from which Elthina would be giving her announcements. And a display of the wondrous enchantments that could be won in the Chantry’s raffle - the star of which was a moving diorama of the Golden City itself.

Sebastian snuck into the basement of the Keep, where the catering service had been given free reign of the kitchens. A short chat with the head chef revealed that he had no intention of letting the elves under his service wander from the path laid out between the kitchens and where they’d be serving the guests in the plaza. And, feeling his duty satisfied, Sebastian made his way to find Aveline.

Aveline was not in her office. And when Sebastian went to wander the plaza looking for her, Elthina frantically flagged him down between words with a very haughty looking Orlesian noble.

“Sebastian, Sister Ernesta was assigned to polish and deliver me my sceptre, and she has been nowhere to be seen for the last twenty minutes. Would you please see to the matter for me?” She patted him absently on the arm at his acquiescence. “Blessings on you, my child.”

Sebastian went to see to the task, when he caught sight of Aveline at the entrance to the plaza. She was issuing orders to a squadron of her guards. Torn between to seeing to matters with her and running his next errand for the Grand Cleric, Sebastian quickly judged that his tasks were assigned to him in order of priority.

Aveline appeared to be finished assigning patrols, when Sebastian walked up to greet her.

“Good evening, my lady,” he said, and watched Aveline startle.

“Oh, it‘s you,” she said indelicately. She turned to walk the perimeter, and Sebastian followed her. “Well, here we are - the guard is at your disposal.”

“I appreciate it,” Sebastian offered magnanimously, before skipping to business. “The Grand Cleric wanted to request that extra members of the guard be assigned to cover the entrances and exits to the Chantry while it is otherwise emptied during the event.”

“Of course she does,” Aveline spat. She flagged down a few members of her guard. “It’s not enough that we’re seeing to this outdoor gathering of yours in the middle of the night, all while the Bloodragers are running rampant through Hightown. The Knight Commander wasn’t as easily bullied for security detail, now was she?”

“You seem rather upset,” Sebastian frowned.

“Nothing to be upset about, is there?” Aveline scoffed. “Just the Viscount’s seat empty for the second year running, and the Chantry eager to show the Keep we might as well live in their pocket.”

“I’ve said it before,” Sebastian reminded, “that Hawke should take up seat as Viscount. I’d support his bid should the opportunity arise.”

“Hawke has enough political power in this City without anything official to back it up,” Aveline grimaced. “Moving back to Ferelden’s looking more tempting all the time. I didn’t sign up for this job thinking I’d end up working for either Hawke or the invisible Maker.”

Sebastian frowned. “All things men do are in service of the Ma-”

“Speak of the devil,” Aveline cut him off. She raised an arm in greeting to the approaching party.

Sebastian perked up. There was Hawke, hair scruffy but in a nice tailored waistcoat. And behind him Fenris, who’s hair had been combed out of his eyes and who appeared to have been forcibly shoved into a pair of shoes. And-

Sebastian’s face fell at Anders. Who also looked a bit cleaned up, but not so much as to be separated from his ratty feathered coat.

“Aveline,” Hawke said. “Sebastian.”

“Hawke,” Aveline returned. She gave an amused huff at the two behind him. “You two…”

“Here we are,” Anders chirped. “All ready for a nice, dull Hightown party.”

“Behave,” Hawke warned.

“The entirety of the guard is here, and a number of templars too, it seems,” Fenris huffed, as he waved vaguely at the surroundings. Sebastian took note that he was wearing his gauntlets underneath the sleeves of his jacket, although his broadsword was notably absent. “I still fail to see how my guard services are required at this event.”

“Shut up,” Hawke grumbled. “I‘m paying you, aren’t I?”

“Hey! How come you’re not paying me?!” Anders protested.

“I am,” Hawke said. “In leftovers, remember?” He turned to Sebastian. “You can get us leftovers, right? Big party like this has to mean a lot of extra to go around at the end of the night?”

“You didn’t even ask him first?!” Anders said, scandalised, before raising his hands in surrender. “Whatever. You better come through for me, Hawke. I’m going to go stand next to the Grand Cleric and fellate a vial of lyrium. See how long it takes her to notice.”

There was something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh from Fenris’s direction but, by the time Sebastian turned to look at him, Fenris’s face was carefully blank and Anders had already run off.

“Really, Hawke?” Aveline said, echoing what must have been all of their thoughts. “Why didn’t you bring Isabela, too? Ask her to perform an encore of her last ‘demonstration’ at the Keep?”

The sarcasm was apparently lost on Hawke. “Isabela was busy,” he grunted. “Said she’d be off ‘unleashing your stallions’. Couldn’t make any sense of it, but she seemed to think you would.”

Indeed, Aveline seemed to take meaning from it. “That scurvy-ridden bitch!” she snarled, before thundering off.

“May I speak with you for a moment, Hawke?” Sebastian squeaked.

“Of course.” Hawke had grabbed a hold of his arm and begun to walk him through the mingling crowd before Sebastian could even finish the sentence.

“Hawke, why would you bring Anders to an event like this?” Sebastian quarried, in an undertone.

Hawke looked at him blankly.

“I mean-” Sebastian faltered. He felt somehow he would not get much sympathy from Hawke if he aired his theory that Anders was trying to turn Fenris against him. “He’s an apostate,” Sebastian reminded. “In the middle of Hightown.”

Hawke seemed to go alight with understanding. “Anders can take care of himself,” he said gruffly.

“But this place is full of guards,” Sebastian protested. “Templars, even?”

“Don’t worry,” Hawke said, in a soothing a voice as Sebastian had ever heard from him. “I’m eighty-five percent certain that Anders is immortal anyhow.”

This was, all in all, highly concerning. And Sebastian was struggling to inquire how exactly Hawke had come across the figure eighty-five percent, _specifically_ , when a flock of Hightown madams manifested on Hawke’s other side.

“Champion! We were looking all over for you! You simply must see to the disappearance of my Bon Bon.”

Hawke gave a confused grunt. “Bon Bon? Where were they last seen?”

“Somewhere down my daughter’s corset,” Sebastian heard someone say, before Hawke was pried hopelessly from Sebastian’s arm and lost to the crowd.

Sebastian looked around, at the slowly filling party. A quick look behind him confirmed that Fenris had been left to his own devices, scuffing the bottoms of his ill-fitted shoes against the pavement. Sebastian considered that the apostate was nowhere to be seen, and Sebastian had his opportunity to make introductions and flaunt the splendorous and worldly aspects of the Chantry to Fenris after all.

“Let me show you around the plaza,” he said, sweeping up to Fenris’s side.

Fenris allowed one of his strange half-smiles, and fell into step behind Sebastian. He listened attentively as Sebastian chattered about the day’s preparations leading to this point. And Sebastian was about to walk Fenris through the prizes up for grabs in the raffle, when he caught the eye of Brother Brahms, a famed Chantry scholar, and recent guest of the Kirkwall Chantry.

Sebastian knew Fenris to be something of an amateur academic, in the way he’d voraciously picked through the contents of Hawke’s library. And Fenris was often brimming with questions about Starkhaven, and the other places in the Free Marches Sebastian had seen, and so it seemed that introducing Fenris to such a worldly yet pious soul could only lead good places.

“Brother Brahms,” Sebastian swept up, hailing the scholar. “I have a friend I think you would be very interested to come to know.”

Brother Brahms turned magnanimously, with open arms. “Is that so, Brother Sebastian? Indeed, I’d be delighted, if you’ll give me one moment.” He then removed his coat and, without so much as a warning, piled it in Fenris’s arms.

Fenris’s cheeks puffed in apparent confusion.

“You must have somewhere you’re holding coats for the guests, elf,” Brother Brahms said. “It is such a warm night. And if you can get me a scotch,” he said, going on to hand Fenris his drink. “This sherry is just a bit sweet.”

Several more people took this as an opportunity to add their coat and drink order to the growing pile on Fenris’s arm. Fenris took the opportunity to fix Sebastian with a glare, as if this was _his_ fault, before puffing himself up. He promptly dropped everyone’s coats on the ground, lifted the glass of sherry, drunk from it defiantly, and stalked off.

“Well,” Brother Brahms scoffed, “I should say that was rather unprofessional, at the very least. Should I speak to his employer?”

Sebastian sighed, as he bent down to scoop up the coats. “That was the friend I had mentioned, not a servant at all.”

“Oh,” Brother Brahms said uncomfortably. Then he bit his lip and doubled down. “Well, still, it was just a little misunderstanding. No reason for him to storm off like that.”

Sebastian was not quite feeling this was such a small misunderstanding, and was in the process of concluding he was quite mistaken about Brother Brahms, when a voice cut through the crowd.

“Sebastian!” Elthina hissed.

Sebastian gave a small nod of his head and, still clutching the collection of coats, moved to the head table where the Grand Cleric was waiting for him.

“Sebastian, I asked you for my sceptre a good half an hour ago.” She gave a weary sigh. “I see you are as rash and easily swayed as ever.”

Sebastian thought this was hardly fair. He’d see to it right away… Just as soon as he found somewhere to stash all these coats.

“When I ask you to see to a matter such as this, I need to know it will be completed, and completed timely,” Elthina said sternly. “This will be your life if you remain in the Chantry, Sebastian – hurrying to the service of the Mothers and Sisters that outrank you. If it does not suit you, you should perhaps consider other options.”

Sebastian held back a sigh. Tonight was a test, it seemed. Although he wished Elthina would not value his commitment to the Maker so cheaply. “I will return shortly with the sceptre, your Grace.”

Retrieving the sceptre became more difficult than intended. Sebastian had needed to convince the guardsman stationed at the entrance of the Chantry to let him back inside. And, once he had done so, and stashed the coats Brother Brahms and the others had left him with, it had taken him a while to locate the sceptre and the missing Sister Ernesta. Or rather, locating them had been easy enough, but extricating himself from the sobbing Sister had taken some time indeed. She was apparently in a state because some of the other Sisters had ruined her shoes and robes for the party, and told her all sorts of things that all boiled down to how unwelcome she was. And Sebastian did his best to listen and be patient with her as she aired her accusations, while also attempting to extricate himself and the sceptre as quickly as possible.

In the end he was not entirely successful at either, and by the time Sebastian emerged from the Chantry doors again, holding a spectre that was only a little tear smudged, the fundraiser was in full swing.

Sebastian should have made his way directly to Elthina at this point, but the plaza was full enough that some of the party goers had made their way up the Chantry steps, and were leaning against the walls and pillars of its wings. And Sebastian was weaving his way through them when he spotted Fenris and the apostate leaned against one of them, having what appeared to be an animated conversation over drinks and a plate of hors d’oeuvres. Or, rather, Anders appeared to be having an animated conversation. Fenris would just point at the plaza every so often and offer a restrained statement, before reaching for the plate Anders was holding and spearing a morsel on his gauntlets.

And then Fenris spotted Sebastian, raised a finger to point at the sceptre, and promptly choked on the pastry puff he was eating.

Sebastian approached, as Fenris attempted to cover his ugly snorting laugh with his hand. Anders himself looked at Sebastian with a wobbly lip and far too amused an expression. It did not feel particularly good to feel mocked.

“I did not expect to see the two of you together,” Sebastian said wearily. “What are you doing?”

“What? Is a man not allowed to stand at a party? Mind his own business? Have a laugh without being accosted?” Anders said. “I suppose not, if you’re a mage.”

Fenris did, blessedly, roll his eyes at this. He seemed to compose himself. “We were playing a game to pass the time,” he said vaguely.

“It’s called: Find the Most Exorbitantly Offensive Person in the Plaza,” Anders said.

Fenris snorted, and Sebastian couldn’t tell if it was from exasperation or amusement.

“What you do, is you look for the person with the most ridiculous hat or sash or _belt buckle_ , and then guess how much it costs and how many starving families in Lowtown it could feed,” Anders went on to explain. “Unfortunately you’ve jumped ahead of everyone else with that wand of yours.”

“It’s a sceptre,” Sebastian said dumbly.

“It sure looks like a wand,” Anders said. “A staff. All ivory and gold and glittery… while people in Darktown eat cats…”

“It belongs to the Grand Cleric.”

“Then you’ve been narrowly edged out, and it turns out she _is_ the most offensive person in the plaza after all!” Anders offered cheerily.

“I still think the man with the diamonds on his spectacles surpasses the others,” Fenris protested.

“Oh, be reasonable,” Anders scoffed. “That could only feed and house a hundred people or so.”

Fenris’s lip curled up at the edge. “A moment ago you were questioning whether I could even see the spectacles from across the plaza.”

“Well, I don’t mind settling the matter in your favour if it means making a point to the Prince,” Anders said magnanimously.

“Do not pay him any mind, Sebastian,” Fenris waved him off. “Go deliver the staff to your foster mother. We will wait here.” He took sip from his wine glass. For a moment it seemed he was finished, but then he looked hesitantly between them before adding dryly, “Critiquing the social ails of an ostentatious upper class.”

The smile Anders fixed Sebastian with was nothing short of viscous.

“It is a sceptre, not a staff,” Sebastian said weakly, for it was the only thing he knew well enough to protest.

“My apologies,” Fenris acquiesced. “Sceptre, then.” It was clear he did not see the difference between the two.

“I only meant it is not a mage’s tool,” Sebastian clarified kindly.

“Are we sure?” Anders asked. “Bet I could shoot some lightning out of it.” He looked ponderous for a moment. “What’s the significance of it?”

This Sebastian knew how to answer. “They’ve been used since the time of Andraste’s contemporaries. To symbolise wisdom and rulership, and to direct troops in battle. Some say Andraste herself carried one like a mace, to lead her people against the Imperium. And she’s described carrying one in Drakon’s vision of the Maker’s return:

_In that baleful eye I saw,  
The Lady of Sorrow, armoured in Light,  
Holding in her left hand,  
The Sceptre Of Redemption.  
\- Exaltations 1:3_

“How very _interesting_ ,” Anders marvelled.

But this was cut off by Fenris’s groan. “Now you’ve seen to it. He’ll be airing his theory about how Andraste was a mage for the next hour.”

“I’m just saying it would go a long way to explain all the miracles she’s purported to have carried out!” Anders insisted.

“Do not speak heresy on the Chantry steps,” Sebastian said curtly.

“Yes, mage, refrain,” Fenris deadpanned. “Return to talking about the hors d’oeuvres.”

For the first time insofar as Sebastian could remember, Anders took the advice and did, in fact, drop the subject.

He picked a cracker covered in pate off the plate. “They’re ridiculous. Tiny bites of fat at, what, five silver apiece?” He popped it into his mouth. “That’s five silver.”

“Ten,” Fenris said, as he picked one out from the plate for himself.

“Fifteen,” Anders continued. “And you’d think for all that fuss they’d actually be good?! But they’re not.” Although he seemed to be munching away happily enough.

Fenris popped a fourth into his mouth and made a face. “Indeed. Egh, salmon.”

“Hawke better come through for me on those leftovers,” Anders said darkly. “This thing’s enough of an extravagant waste already.”

“Mmm,” Fenris hummed as he washed the salmon away with the rest of his wine. He lifted the empty glass up to Sebastian as if toasting him. “I am enjoying the open bar though,” he offered.

“At least one of us is getting something out of it,” Anders smiled, lifting his own glass. Which contained something orange, quite unlike Fenris’s wine.

Sebastian excused himself. He had taken far too long to get the sceptre to the Grand Cleric Elthina anyway.

Elthina was seated on a raised dais at the head of the stage, being greeted and entreated by a procession paying her their respects. And though Sebastian could tell she was annoyed at how long it had taken him to retrieve the sceptre, she accepted it graciously and laid it gently over her lap.

“Brother Sebastian, this is Lord Henry Bowen of Ostwick,” Elthina gestured graciously between them. Sebastian did not miss the way she emphasised the word Brother, where with many of the lordlings she was quick to point out Sebastian’s standing as Starkhaven’s Prince. She turned to Lord Bowen. “I apologise for the interruption to our conversation.”

“It is no trouble,” Lord Bowen reassured, with only a cursory glance at Sebastian. “As I was saying, I believe it is important for Marchers to be well represented within the Templar Order, lest it simply be a tool of Orlais.”

Elthina nodded understandingly, and shooed Sebastian off with an impatient wave of her hand. And Sebastian remembered the Bowens of Ostwick had not historically been on good terms with the Vaels of Starkhaven, despite their shared commitment to the Chantry and the Maker. And, like many of the noble houses, they had been quick to find means to profiteer from the death of Sebastian’s family. And Sebastian found himself alight with anger.

His mother had always told him the Amells had been the best family in Kirkwall, and now it seemed they might by the only noble family anywhere that was good at all. Not a single noble house in Kirkwall or Ostwick or Tantervale had raised a levy in support when the Vaels were usurped. But Hawke had helped him. Hawke and his friends, most of whom lacked a surname entirely.

Sebastian thought then to confront this Lord Bowen, about his profiteering and grandstanding and all the things he hadn’t done. But Elthina had waved Sebastian off and, really, she was far more sensible than him. It would not do any good to confront Lord Bowen, whose crime was hardly unique. It would only make him recalcitrant and unsupportive of Kirkwall’s Chantry, and that would help no one.

Sebastian was grateful for her guidance, and he looked at her for a moment. And, when he tried, it wasn’t that he couldn’t see what Anders and Fenris saw – the flashiness of the sceptre placed across her lap and the fine silver threaded embroidery on the hem of her robes. It was just that he also saw the sceptre that had allegedly belonged to Divine Amara, gifted to Kirkwall’s Chantry in the Storm Age. He remembered how carefully and reverently Elthina had handled it, polishing and placing it in its chest, as she took Sebastian’s confession in her office. She was always aware of the legacy she was carrying. People looked to her for guidance, as she always had to look the part.

Sebastian made his way back over to his friends.

Aveline had joined Anders and Fenris at their spot to the side of the Chantry steps. She was clutching a glass of whiskey in her hand and scowled. Fenris appeared to be feigning aloofness and Anders – attempting not to laugh.

Sebastian walked up curiously to their group, and attempted to judge the thick silence that spread out between them. They didn’t speak at all, except to offer quiet refusal or thanks as the servers making the rounds at the fundraiser spun around to offer more hors d’oeuvres.

After a moment, Fenris cleared his throat. “So, Aveline… I take it Isabela was successful in freeing your stallions after all?”

Anders wheezed.

“Oh, shut up, you two,” Aveline snapped back, although she failed to hide her amused snort. “You and Donnic have no idea. It will take a fortune to replace them. Some were even imported.”

“Fancy lace,” Anders snickered.

“I did not realise you were an equestrian, Guard Captain,” Sebastian said curiously. He hadn’t done much riding since his initiation into the Chantry, but he still knew the basics well enough.

“She’s not,” Anders laughed harder. Even Fenris gave an amused snort. “I take it someone hasn’t read Varric and Isabela’s friend-fiction.”

“Don’t,” Aveline warned. “I am going to have a nice drink, and we are going to stop talking about this.”

“Of course, Captain,” Fenris snickered.

Sebastian was feeling very out of the loop, when a man in a crisp cut server’s uniform approached, this time without anything to serve, but rather a collection pot and a roll of-

“Raffle tickets?!” the man offered. “Twenty silvers a ticket, as many tickets as you can purchase, for anything and everything you see at the head of the stage! Including the original piece by revered Nevarran sculptor, Sir Ezra Lou – Diorama of the Golden City!”

Eager to be an example, Sebastian dutifully fished his pockets for twenty silver, dropped it in the collection pot, and waved away the raffle ticket the servant tried to pass over to him. It would be inappropriate for a member of the Chantry to accept the prizes up for collection. The servant thanked him, and Sebastian beamed and looked expectantly at his companions.

“No, thank you,” Aveline said a bit stiffly.

Fenris’s face was carefully neutral. “My apologies. I did not bring any coin with me.”

Anders crumpled the cloth napkin in his hand, sloppy with stains, and put that in the collection pot instead.

Aveline snorted and took another sip of her whiskey. Fenris did not react at all.

This struck both Sebastian and the servant mute for a while, and then the latter ambled away. Once he was gone, Sebastian turned on his companions.

“Have you all no generosity in your heart?” He turned to Anders. “Or even a little reverence?” And, then, in spite of Sebastian’s most sincere desire not to alienate Fenris, he turned on him. “You’d attend a fundraiser without any coin?”

Fenris looked pointedly uncomfortable, and shuffled on his feet. “Hawke usually takes care of the expenses,” he said simply.

“You want me to donate to the Chantry?” Aveline scoffed. “I am not a guest at your fundraiser. I am here in a professional capacity. To work.”

“You’re drinking on the Chantry’s tab,” Sebastian pointed out.

“The Chantry has seen to making this a very trying day,” Aveline growled, as she took another gulp of her whiskey. “Between Donnic and I, enough of our salary goes towards the Chantry anyhow. Don’t think I don’t know he spends every Thursday at Fenris’s, losing coin to you at Wicked Grace. Tell me you don’t put that coin straight in the Chantry offering box.”

“I disavow any knowledge of gambling occurring in my house,” Fenris hurried to say.

“That’s coin fairly won,” Sebastian protested.

“Illegally won,” Aveline huffed. “If you want coin so bad, why not entreat the sky for it? You can ask the Maker for some berry pie, while you’re at it.”

Sebastian thought that Aveline rather misunderstood the purpose of prayer. “I have found that kind of prayer rarely works for me.”  
  
“I am sure Hawke will purchase enough tickets for all three of us,” Fenris placated.

“No doubt,” Aveline snorted. “He’s worse than I was with Donnic.”

Anders raised his voice above the others. “I fail to see the need for the Chantry to host a fundraiser.” Having successfully drawn their attention, he smiled serenely. “Perhaps you can explain it to me, Brother Sebastian. The Chantry has many sources of income. It collects a stipend from the local government for its services. It collects alms year round. It also makes a tidy profit selling enchantments. Made by Tranquil mages. Whom it has wrongfully imprisoned and extorted labour from.” Anders’s words were terse and cutting at this point, but made a point to take a few deep breaths and smiled brightly once again. “I just fail to see, given the amount of coin the Chantry takes in, why it would need to throw a fundraiser if there weren’t some serious issues with _fiscal mismanagement_.”

Sebastian frowned at Anders’s facetiously serene expression. “The Chantry is collecting coin to build a new wing, where it will shelter the needy and orphaned it collects off the streets.”

“Yes, child labour as well,” Anders said. “Can’t forget about that.”

The man was impossible to talk with. Sebastian turned to Fenris, who was swirling the wine in his glass and watching with far too amused an expression.

“And what do you think of this, my friend?”

Fenris coughed. “Er, you would like my opinion?”

Aveline had clearly stopped listening to the conversation, and was looking out over the rest of the plaza. But, like Sebastian, Anders had turned to look curiously at Fenris.

“I believe…” Fenris began. “If the Chantry wishes to convince the laity of its good intentions, it should probably be less eager to turn a profit on those it claims to be in the business of protecting. And less eager to indulge gilded extravagance.”

“‘Good intentions’?” Anders repeated. “They have no good intentions, and you damned well know it.”

Fenris hummed non-committally, and turned away to bury his face in his wine glass.

All in all it was… a fair criticism. Sebastian himself was often concerned that the Chantry had crippled itself with greed and corruption. And he had more than once doubted the commitment of his fellow brothers and sisters to compassion and humility.

But it still hurt a little that Fenris was equivocating in such a way that ceded ground to the apostate.

“Refills on your drinks?” an elvhen servant approached, carrying a large pitcher of wine.

“Please,” Fenris was quick to offer his now empty glass.

The servant nodded and refilled from the pitcher.

“Better not,” Aveline said, tilting her own empty glass in her hand. “I _am_ still working. I had better check back with the others on patrol. Good seeing you all.” She nodded at them and, before marching off to leave her empty glass at the bar, tapped Sebastian on the shoulder. “Hawke was looking for you, when you get the chance.”

When Sebastian had finished pondering this, he turned back to find the servant attempting to refill Anders’s glass.

“Oh, er, I’m afraid I’m a bit of a teetotaller,” Anders admitted, almost embarrassed, as he held his glass away.

“I can send someone with some juice,” the servant offered. “Or you can get a custom drink from the bar.”

“Juice would be fine,” Anders agreed, still looking a little bashful. He glanced sideways at Fenris, in a way Sebastian felt was more than a little suspicious, although Fenris himself seemed unconcerned, occupied as he was with his own refilled glass.

Sebastian took his leave to find Hawke, or perhaps just to get a breath of fresh air. Fresh apostate-free air…

He was circling the plaza, avoiding small talk, and had three times steered well clear of the dance stage, when Hawke found him instead.

The hand darted out from between the crowd, and Hawke seized his wrist. “Thank the Maker,” he breathed a sigh of relief. His waistcoat was crumpled, his hair mussed worse than normal, and the elbow of his shirt was singed. He was breathing heavily and looked more than a little dazed, as he hauled himself up next to Sebastian.

“Hawke?” Sebastian asked.

“Sebastian,” Hawke said.

When nothing else was forthcoming, Sebastian became concerned.

“Is everything alright, Hawke?” he prodded with an anxious chuckle. “You’re a bit of a mess. Did something happen?”

“Bon Bon was only the beginning…” Hawke’s eyes were unfocussed, gazing to a place Sebastian couldn’t see. He shook his head. “I’m fine now.”

Sebastian supposed this wasn’t the place to press, and let Hawke walk beside him, as they circled around past where the buffet was to be set up and over to the bar.

“You don’t seem fine,” Hawke said after a moment. “You asked about me but- You. You don’t seem fine.”

Sebastian laughed weakly. He supposed he was acting a bit dazed himself. “I suppose not.”

Hawke looked at Sebastian curiously, and when Sebastian looked back he found Hawke’s big brown eyes invited him to speak more effectively than any line of inquiry.

“It’s- The apostate has kept Fenris occupied nearly all night,” Sebastian found himself admitting. “And the two of them- They will not cease-” Sebastian pursed his lips, but there were really not two words for it. They wouldn’t stop _laughing._ At the guests. At Grand Cleric Elthina. At everything the Chantry was trying to do here. And at things Sebastian didn’t even understand.

Hawke blinked inscrutably. “It’s great, isn’t it?” he finally said.

Sebastian was taken aback. “Great?” he repeated.

“Fenris and Anders,” Hawke said, gruffly. “Keeping one another occupied. We should… take advantage of the moment.” Pause. “While they’re occupied with one another.” Pause. “To have some time to ourselves.”

Before Sebastian could properly interpret this, or reassure Hawke that he’d always make time to be a friend to him, there was an urgent shout.

“Serah Hawke!” the voice screeched.

“Fuck’s sake,” Hawke cursed under his breath. “We should-” He tugged at Sebastian’s arm but, finding it unyielding, released it and bolted off alone behind the bar and into the crowd.

By the time Sebastian located the source of the cry, Seneschal Bran Cavin was upon him.

“Have you seen the Champion?” the Senschal sneered in an airy voice.

“Not at all,” Sebastian reassured.

The Senschal let out a disgruntled snort, and pursued hot on Hawke’s heels. And Sebastian was left alone once again.

Sebastian thought about what he might see to next. But although he should probably report back to Elthina’s side, or otherwise return to keep Fenris company as he had originally planned, Sebastian found himself in the mood for neither. And he was, after all, right next to the bar.

He pulled up to its front, ordered himself a glass, and did something he had not properly done since his wayward youth: he leaned over the counter and spilled his soul to the bartender. Who was surely used to such things, and who would surely keep his confidence.

And Sebastian could hardly be blamed for the fact that the conversation started to take a particular direction, surrounded as he was by drunks and bottles of spirits.

“His irreverence would put the Maker to shame! Is there nothing he will not make a mockery of – faith, generosity, all our good work here trying to raise funds for a children’s wing of the Chantry?! It means nothing to him! And, forgive me, I do not know how my good friends mistake it for humour.” Sebastian folded his cloth napkin into smaller and smaller triangles, and indulged in his wine. It fell sweet across his tongue. “I suppose they just do not see him for the heretic he is, hiding behind quips and clever words. And he refuses to drink as well, no doubt to hide what would become clear if his tongue were looser.”

“Ah, I gotcha,” the bartender nodded slowly. “Won’t stand for the taste of alcohol. And he’s the one in the feathered coat?” he prompted, pointing out to the crowd and up the Chantry steps. “The one talking to the elf with the white hair and dark skin?”

Sebastian turned to follow the bartender’s extended finger and squinted. “Indeed,” he agreed. “Your eyesight is quite remarkable!” he complimented.

“Of course, serah,” the bartender agreed with a wink. “There’s always one who won’t show their true colours. Say no more.”

Sebastian tried his hand at quiet contemplation once more and, having aired his concerns to this fine soul, found himself remarkably cleansed by the experience. It had a whimsical kind of quality, like the bartender had charmed away the worst of his frustrations. And the wine he’d recommended was rather good. Sebastian folded his napkin into the shape of a flower, and paid remarkably little attention as the bartender began mixing together shaved bits of ice and juice and a sprinkle from a tiny jar of greyish powder.

He did not fully put together what had happened until the bartender arranged the drink on a tray and walked off, without a word, directly in the direction of the Chantry steps. It looked remarkably like he was heading directly for-

“Say no more…?” Sebastian repeated to himself. “No, no, wait! Say more!” he shouted, and jumped to follow after where the bartender had disappeared into the crowd. “Come back! What are you going to-?!” Sebastian knew what he was going to do. “Oooh, Maker…”

But… would it really be so bad if Anders accepted this drink? It was a detestable and underhand thing to do to drug a man so he might talk or act more freely, but… If Anders really did intend to keep Fenris from the Maker’s side, was that not something that required extreme measures to combat?

_Oh, Andraste, Lady of Sorrows, lead us from the darkness into the Maker_ _’_ _s Light…_

Sebastian fumbled to clasp his hands. And as he searched himself, the wisdom of the Maker, as recorded in _Threnodies 12:1_ , came to him:

_Those who had sought to claim,  
Heaven by violence destroyed it._

Yes, those who sought to achieve good by truly wicked means would only tarnish what they sought to claim and protect. Surely, this verse had come to him for a reason. And Sebastian had an obligation to prevent the evil being carried out against the apostate.

Unfortunately in the time it took for Sebastian to contemplate this, Anders had already accepted the glass from the bartender. _A custom-made non-alcoholic beverage? Just for him? One of the servers had put in a special request when they_ _’_ _d heard he wasn_ _’_ _t much for wine or spirits? Well, that was almost flattering._

Sebastian reached the bottom of the Chantry steps and saw as much. The bartender was nowhere to be seen, but Anders had the brightly coloured drink in his hand, and was smiling brightly at Fenris.

Needless to say, Sebastian lost some number of minutes to pacing, self-recrimination, and moral and existential dread.

What snapped him out of it was, perhaps ironically, the reappearance of Lord Henry Bowen of Ostwick.

“Brother Sebastian?” he queried. “I thought I recognised the armour. Grand Cleric Elthina didn’t address you as such, but you’re Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven, aren’t you?”

“That would be me,” Sebastian chuckled weakly. His answer was automatic. “Although not in any official capacity. My cousin, Goran Vael, is the current reigning Prince of Starkhaven.”

Lord Bowen offered the condolences that polite society dictated, before launching into his verbal campaign to manipulate Sebastian into doing whatever suited House Bowen best. At least, Sebastian was pretty sure that’s what was happening. Though, truth be told, Sebastian couldn’t catch most of it. He watched the way Lord Bowen’s brow furrowed, and the hypnotic way his moustache moved up and down as he talked.

“As you know, Kirkwall is not the centre of production some of the other city-states of the Free Marches claim to be. That the Grand Cleric intends to hold her position here in spite of-”

“My apologies. I’m going to have to cut you off,” Sebastian said suddenly. “I have actual friends I need to attend to.”

Lord Bowen blinked rather harshly. “Excuse me, I-”

Sebastian pushed the man out of the way and dashed up the steps. And, as he did, it occurred to him that he had probably offended Lord Bowen more effectively in his current actions than he might have with anything said in his earlier anger. Elthina would likely not be pleased with him but-

Sebastian fretted. How long had he stood useless at the bottom of those stairs? How long would it take for Anders to feel the effects of whatever the bartender had used to drug him? He searched the memories of his wayward youth for anything his then associates had said on the subject, but could find nothing in the foggy drunk memories of his carousing.

Either way, he had to do what damage control he could.

Anders and Fenris were much where Sebastian had left them, although they lacked the air of light-hearted amusement that Sebastian had observed before. Fenris appeared to be the one attempting to initiate conversation. There was no trace of the smug grin Sebastian had come to expect on Anders’s face.

Sebastian skidded to a stop in front of them.

“Is everything alright over here? Fenris?” Sebastian tried his best to give a natural smile, only to feel it peel at the seams.

Fenris seemed too distracted to fully take this in, though. He glanced between Sebastian and Anders, and got stuck on the latter. “Are you alright, mage?” he asked warily. “You do not… seem like yourself…”

Anders seemed very intent on the crowd. “I am as much myself as ever, mortal,” he said stiffly.

“…Right,” Fenris agreed. He leaned back against the pillar, in a stance that was not nearly so relaxed as it was intended to be mistaken for. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Anders.

Anders took another sip of his drink, and seemed to startle at it. He looked at the light reflecting off the glass with something like wonder. “Although, I must admit I am impressed with this beverage,” he told no one in particular. “For it to be made to our particular specification. And the taste is nothing like the ones our friend, Oghren, used to imbibe in.”

Fenris graced this with a measured nod, before turning to Sebastian. “Go fetch Hawke,” he instructed.

Unfortunately, Sebastian had lost himself to an anxious fit of giggles and quickly excused himself. He scrambled off to lose himself in the crowd and-

Oh, dear. Oh, Maker. Anders knew about the drink. And he was behaving strangely. At least he seemed in possession of his senses, and not completely besotted by his drink, but-

Servants were piling the buffet table with meat and gravy and noodles. And Sebastian was ambling nearby, trying to decide what to do, when he caught sight of a familiar red beacon of hair.

He rushed up to the woman in question. “Guard Captain! Lady Aveline! You have to-” Sebastian wrung his hands. “Arrest the bartender!” he decided.

“Excuse me?” Aveline frowned.

“The bartender!” And, curses, what did the man even look like? Sebastian had hardly been paying attention. “He was here only a moment ago! You must see to his safe arrest!”

“Alright. Alright,” Aveline placated, raising a hand to wave him down. “I can’t do anything unless you calm down and tell me what you saw.”

“He’s a scoundrel,” Sebastian said firmly. “An enemy to the Maker, and all good men and women, and the good standing of everyone at this event. Only a word or two, and he will sneak potions into his drinks, to addle the senses of those who might otherwise be less amenable to the buyer’s charms.” He whispered a prayer under his breath. “I can only imagine how many he has targeted.”

“And you saw him do this?” Aveline asked. “When? To who?”

Sebastian suddenly realised the problem with this course of action. How to explain the danger of this man to Aveline without divulging his own mistaken involvement in the… crime… of sorts. “To whom? Um- It seems the attempt was not entirely successful.” Sebastian grimaced. “Or, well, I did not see him do it so much as- I… overheard speak of it?”

“So this is some idle gossip you’ve simply overheard?” Aveline raised a critical eyebrow.

Sebastian was offended. “I would not implicate a man on idle gossip!”

“Then you did see something?” Aveline pressed.

There was much hemming and hawing. Sebastian glanced sideways up the Chantry steps to where Anders and Fenris were. He could not get a clear view of them through the crowd.

“Let me see if I understand you clearly,” Aveline frowned. “You want me to arrest a man for a crime he may or may not have carried out against an unknown person, based on a testimony you refuse to give?”

And then the crowd parted, ever so slightly, and Sebastian _could_ see Anders and Fenris at the top of the steps. And it was as if everything happened in slow motion.

Because the crowd at the fundraiser had become quite dense, even in the secluded corner of it that Anders and Fenris had sequestered themselves away in. And so it was not entirely a surprise when a rather inebriated man careened into Anders’s back, and in turn sent Anders sprawling forward. He fumbled and dropped his drink and fell face first into the shoulder of a rather surprised and uncomfortable looking Fenris.

And then there was a blinding flash of fade blue from the both of them, so bright it rent the night and quite effectively called the attention of everyone in the plaza.

Sebastian caught the edge of Fenris grabbing hold of Anders’s collar and pulling the coat over the top of his glowing head, when there was a commotion much closer to home. There was a wild crash as the buffet table toppled and noodles and gravy were sent splattering across the ground. Several nobles in the immediate vicinity had begun screaming.

Aveline adjusted her shield on her arm and pulled herself up from where she’d crouched for the shield bash. “That should be enough of a commotion to give them some cover,” she said in an undertone, before raising her arm and voice over the crowd. “Everyone remain calm as the guard rights the buffet and investigates what’s happened.”

A great line of guests seemed to take this as an invitation to regale Aveline with everything from their opinions about the night’s magical happenings, to their complaints about the stains their clothes sustained when the buffet toppled, to the entirety of their life stories. Nobody seemed particularly calmed, which Sebastian supposed was for the best. He scanned the crowd, looking for the spot where he’d lost track of Anders and Fenris, and was pleased to find he could not easily track them.

Not without prior knowledge of where they might congregate.

Sebastian slipped away from the plaza and down the path towards the Market District, before making a sharp right into the ivy-covered enclave Hawke had shown him for a gathering place off the Keep.

Hawke glanced at Sebastian sharply, before relaxing at the familiar face. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and appeared to be locked in some form of confrontation with the apostate. Or, rather, the abomination.

Anders had his feathered coat pulled backwards over the top of his head. It succeeded in covering him for the most part, but a faint blue glow could still be seen emanating off the nape of his neck, if viewed from the correct angle. His arms were pulled only partway through the sleeves of his coat, and someone had tied their excess fabric together in a knot behind his back. Probably Fenris, given he was holding the sleeves like a jailor held a pair of handcuffs. Fenris was breathing in a set of tight and measured hisses through his teeth, working himself down from a panic.

The abomination didn’t seem to be particularly bothered by the predicament he’d found himself in. “You will not depart until you have procured what you promised for us,” he asserted from under the coat.

“Not much of a choice,” Hawke was barking. “Can’t leave you running around without a chaperone. You should be breathing a sigh of damned relief we’re even willing to take your word that Anders is still somewhere in that foggy head you’re sharing!”

Fenris puffed his cheeks and glared up at the back of the abomination’s head. Sebastian thought he was going to say something, but in the end he didn’t.

“Anders appears to be deep in sleep…” the abomination sounded perplexed. “Though I do not understand why he would fall asleep in such a place… I suppose he has behaved more strangely in the past…”

Sebastian tried his best not to sink down into the cracks on the pavement in shame.

The abomination’s voice firmed. “I will keep you both apprised of the situation,” he announced. “It is of concern to me as well… Regardless, you will see to your promises first, and then we can be off.”

“I keep telling you,” Hawke growled. “You blew it when you went all glowy.” He jabbed the abomination in the shoulder.

“Hawke,” Fenris warned. “Sebastian is here. Ask him to see to it already. It isn’t the time for the both of you to be stubborn.”

“Ask me to see to what?” Sebastian asked.

Hawke crossed his arms and looked almost… sulky.

“You gave Anders your word,” the abomination protested. “He agreed to come here on the condition that you collected the leftovers for us to distribute in Darktown.”

Sebastian remembered hearing something about that, but he struggled still to place its relevance.

Hawke frowned. “That’s not why he agreed.”

“Indeed,” the abomination said grimly. “He wished an opportunity to speak with the elf.”

At this, Fenris’s cheeks puffed, his ears twitched, and he tightened where he had tied the abomination’s arms behind his back.

The abomination continued, nonplussed. “To lie was deceitful and unjust. I will see to Anders’s repentance. But, regardless, Anders trusts you. You would not go back on your word to him.”

Hawke did not seem pleased to hear this. “None of this would be a problem if you hadn’t shown yourself,” he growled.

“Indeed,” the abomination agreed. He sounded almost sad.

There was a clatter as a guard in full armour approached the enclave. “Um, excuse me,” the guard coughed, seeming to pale from the hostile glances of those enshrouded there. “Message from the Captain,” he announced, lifting up a note as a peace offering. He began to read it in a slow and stiff voice. “We’re resuming on schedule. You’re lucky you all defy sensible explanation. The Grand Cleric is asking for-” The guard looked between them in confusion. “-one of you,” he decided. “Those of you who don’t want your names in the guard report better have dispersed before I send out the next group for rounds.”

Sebastian sighed. “I had best get back.”

Hawke drew himself up to his full height, and it was quite impressive that he managed to look so menacing going up unarmed against a guard in full armour. “Scram,” he snapped, as he snatched the note from the guard’s hand.

“Yes, serah,” the guard saluted and dispersed.

There was a strange moment, after which the abomination said, in far too booming a voice, “I did not recognise that speaker.”

Hawke sighed and seemed to relent.

“You,” he began, looking at Sebastian.

Fenris cleared his throat over whatever Hawke intended to say next. “Hawke if you will allow me leave of your study. You may see to your… numerous points of unfinished business here. I will escort the abomination away to wait until Anders comes to his senses and you return with what you promised him.”

Hawke seemed no more pleased to hear this. He narrowed his eyes. “Fenris, it’s _you_. You and a bloody demon.”

“I am not a demon!” the abomination protested.

Fenris cursed in Tevene. “You act as if this is the first time I have escorted a mage and their pet demon about.”

“Neither am I a pet!”

Fenris rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Be assured I have seen to numerous matters of this nature before.”

Hawke seemed still unconvinced.

Fenris shot Sebastian a look that he could not read and then glanced back to Hawke. “You were looking forward to this evening.”

Hawke frowned more firmly. But then he uncrossed his arms and relented. “If either of you hurt one another, the other forfeits their teeth to my fist,” he growled.

Fenris seemed unimpressed. But swung the abomination in front of him and shoved him forward, still gripping the sleeves of his coat. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Hawke.” And then to Sebastian. “I apologise for the trouble at the fundraiser. I wish you the best of successes tonight.” His lip curled with something Sebastian could not read, and then he added impulsively. “Give Aveline my regards. And purchase a ticket for the raffle in my name. I will reimburse you the cost.”

“O-Of course,” Sebastian said, feeling strangely unworthy of this gesture of goodwill. He wished to say something more – perhaps wish Fenris a pleasant evening himself, or ask if he would be safe walking through town with an abomination – but Sebastian could not seem to grasp it. And then it was too late. Hawke swept him by the arm back into the plaza and the fundraiser, just as Fenris pressed his elbow into Anders’s back and shoved him into the alley towards the Amell estate.

==

Fenris reflected that there were things you could spend your entire life running from, and yet you’d never get anywhere.

The stars in the sky formed the same constellations here as the ones he’d observed between the canopy of the Seheron jungle. He could see the serpent curling about the sky, and the scales of judgment weighing his guilt same as they ever did.

Magic was another one. They locked mages up here in the south, better contained than they were in the north, but they were still everywhere you looked. The Chantry kept them for their crusades, and their enchanting, and for the amusement of the most naïve and arrogant of their nobles. And the rest crawled like ants under your feet.

And then there was yourself. And sometimes Fenris thought he had run very far from the person he used to be. And other times it seemed he was exactly who he had always been – a simpering idiot willing to suffer all manner of indignities.

Indignities such as fielding the questions of a very curious demon hiding under a feather coat.

“Why do all the houses in this part of the city have a second entrance in the alley that is better traversed than the front entrance?” the demon asked. Anders’s hands were still tied in his sleeves behind his back, and Fenris held his wrists as he pushed the abomination forward through the narrow cobbled backstreets between the mansions.

“It’s called a servants’ entrance,” Fenris snarled, as he ripped off Hawke’s stupid shoes and tossed them to a garbage pile. He felt immediately better with the thick calluses of his feet against the cold stone.

“Are servants not allowed to use the front entrance?”

“No.”

The demon let out a quiet huff that sounded like ‘ _Injustice_ ’. He seemed to ponder for a moment, as he moved Anders’s legs in wide uneven strides. “Anders always enters Hawke’s Estate from the alleyway. Or the basement.”

“Naturally,” Fenris agreed. They were unfit to be seen doing otherwise. Fenris used the servant’s entrance on his own mansion.

“Are we lost?” the demon asked.

“No.”

“Anders says this city is easy to get lost in, compared to Amaranthine. The blood witch complains of it often. Is it unlike most cities?”

Fenris sighed. He orchestrated their dash out into the empty street, and did not speak until they were on the other side. “The Magisters did something here, back when they held the city. Some experiment to thin the Veil. Whatever they intended failed, but there seem to be side effects on impressionable minds.” Danarius used to complain about things like that. Like the Imperium’s famous failed attempt to map the Fade. Things he called ‘foolish, aimless wastes of resources’. Fenris wasn’t sure what the experiments done to himself and the resources expended to retrieve him counted as in Danarius’s mind. “It is known, even in Tevinter,” is all he told the demon.

“Tevinter?” the demon repeated. “That is where you come by your knowledge. Yes, Anders is very curious about it.”

Fenris scoffed, as he pushed them past another corner. “That’s because the mage is a fool.” Tevinter would likely see Anders chewed up and spit out, if he ever got close enough to sate that curiosity. Or that was the better of the two possibilities that Fenris saw.

“Anders is not a fool!” the demon protested. “Anders is very intelligent. I cannot say how many things I have learned from him in our time together.”

Fenris considered this, and came to the startling realisation that, for the demon to have learned so much from him, the demon had to be even more a fool than the mage himself. Nesting dolls of ignorance and idiocy. The blind leading the blind and Fenris, the blindest of all, leading them both through Hightown.

“You seem intelligent as well, elf,” the demon said. “I have another question. Anders does not believe that any good can come of Hawke’s interest in the Chantry brother. He has made several disparaging comments about the brother’s vows, not all of which I am sure I understand… Do you think this a fair estimation?”

Fenris had to keep himself from startling. “You are asking my opinion?” People seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight. It was… disconcerting. He shrugged. “I do not know if Sebastian will ever return Hawke’s favour, or if anything good will come of it. But the mage is in no position to decide what Sebastian and Hawke might find tolerable, perhaps even preferable, in the relationship between them.”

The demon made a long ponderous noise. One that was interrupted by the immediate appearance of the mob.

Aveline had warned them that the Bloodragers had been rather active as of late, and that security was too focussed around the vicinity of the Chantry to ensure any protection for stragglers wandering through the rest of Hightown. But, not for the first time that night, Fenris cursed himself for allowing Hawke to persuade him to leave his blade at home.

There were three assailants directly atop them, who seemed to have jumped down from an awning, and two more at the closest exit to the alley. Fenris ripped at the closest one with his gauntlets and, when their guts had spilled out to the street and he’d already plunged a fist through the next, the third managed to elbow him upside the head. Fenris fell back against the wall on the side of the alley, and the Bloodrager stood over him, with a pair of swords that would certainly pierce him before Fenris managed to lunge.

Then there was a searing hot blur as the demon pulled free. He reached a pair of hands up to melt away the third assailant’s face, hands burning with fire and crackling with electricity. And, when the corpse fell, Fenris looked at the expression on the abomination’s face. It was blank and firm. His eyes were electric blue and nothing else.

There was a lot of horrified screaming from the entrance of the alley. But the volley of arrows hadn’t stopped, and the demon turned away from Fenris to hurl a burst of elemental magic at them. It was a blow both precise and powerful, and Fenris saw one of the figures fall and the other flee, and then it was just them. Over in seconds.

Fenris could now see the frayed black edges where the demon had burned through the cuffs of the coat that Fenris had tied together behind his back. The demon lifted a glowing, gory hand to Anders’s mouth, licked the blood curiously, and frowned, before turning to Fenris.

Fenris leaned back against the wall and tried to will himself towards fight, or flight, or anything except the way he froze. The demon, _Justice,_ seemed to have as precise a control over magic as the mage himself did. And standing opposite them, Fenris began to wonder if he’d made a terrible mistake. He hadn’t precisely lied to Hawke, but this really wasn’t so similar to escorting the demon ridden mages of the Imperium as Fenris had let on. Perhaps because Anders was a very unusual abomination. But definitely because when Fenris had escorted those Imperial abominations he’d been quiet and deferential, while the Fenris of tonight had been rude and recalcitrant. If the demon sought to humble him…

Then Justice looked down again at Anders’s hand, still erupting in electric blue. He stared at it like it wasn’t quite his. “We are very noticeable. If we attract unwanted attention, it will make trouble for you.”

“I- Yes,” Fenris agreed, dumbly.

Justice nodded and reached behind Anders’s head for the collar of his coat. He pulled it up over his head. Mimicking inexpertly what Fenris had accomplished before in using the coat as a makeshift cowl.

Fenris was not sure what he felt irritated by. He stood up straight and crossed his arms sullenly. “You are already making trouble for me,” he snipped. “Cover the signs of your possession for your own sake. You will attract the attention of the templars, otherwise.”

“I do not fear them as Anders does,” Justice said plainly. “Should they find us, it will only be an opportunity to enact our vengeance upon them.”

“You will dispatch them, and they will hire more recruits out of the slums,” Fenris scoffed. “You would accomplish nothing.”

“Indeed,” Justice said grimly, from under the coat. “Let us be off.” He reached out a softly glowing hand.

Fenris looked at that hand and cursed himself. He knew he had already made the decision to take it, and there was no explanation for it except that Fenris was a fool.

He curled his gauntleted hand around the abomination’s as gently as he could and blazed forward on the path to the Amell estate, dragging Anders and the demon behind him. And although there was no way for the abomination to perceive the heat in his cheeks or the stupid thrum in his chest, he felt convinced anyhow that it was as plain as day and everyone would see him for the weak and foolish creature he was.

Finally they approached the back entrance to the Amell estate. Fenris hurried for the latch, releasing the abomination after one last tug forward. But he underestimated how finicky the latch was, and the momentum had the abomination stumbling forward against his back and trapping him against the door before Fenris could force it open.

Barkfly, the Mabari, could be heard rushing up to the other side of the door in a flurry of barks, ready to ward off intruders. But he quieted when it seemed he was directly on the other side, perhaps recognising his visitors by their scent.

Fenris tried very hard not to focus on how it felt to have someone pressed flush against his back, in the comforting confines of too little space. And he maybe pulled at the latch too frantically and pressed the door open with too much force.

The door wouldn’t open all the way, as it swung inwards and knocked against the stool in the mudroom, piled with everything from old shoes to scraps of paper to mismatched pieces of metal armour – including what looked like Merrill’s rusty old set of chain mail. Fenris scrambled through the opening and away from the abomination as quickly as he could manage.

Barkfly wagged his tail, romped in a circle, and barred Fenris from leaving the mudroom until he’d received his desired number of pets.

It was a small room, but at least not so small that Fenris and the abomination had to be literally on top of one another. He turned back, to where the demon was turning himself stiffly around the door and stool, and tugging his coat back down from where it had been pulled over his face.

“We’re at Hawke’s,” Fenris said stupidly. His voice sounded far too breathy to his own ears.

The demon, at least, did not seem to notice. “I appreciate you seeing Anders and myself here safely.”

The stack of armour piled on the stool finally unbalanced itself, and crashed to the floor.

Fenris sighed.

Barkfly had apparently learned that Anders was not keen on dogs, and so ignored the abomination as he extorted further pets from Fenris. And then the Mabari yawned, almost like a person, and let them pass further inside the house.

Fenris led the way through dimly lit halls that had grown cluttered and dusty in Bodahn’s absence. He understood, he thought, why Hawke had sent the man and his son away in the aftermath of Leandra’s death. But it was certainly doing the house no favours. Fenris supposed it was too large a property for one man by himself to occupy comfortably.

He knew Hawke kept the study in good repair though, and Fenris intended to lead the abomination there. Only Justice kept getting distracted by the paintings and tapestries and showpieces pinned to the walls. Fenris turned back, having realised he was no longer being followed. He watched Justice study the pattern of the Amell Crest stamped across an ornamental shield, blank glowing eyes whose line of sight was impossible to trace.

Justice seemed to notice Fenris watching. “Apologies. I have seen them before, but the world looks different when Anders is less forefront in our mind.”

Fenris was not sure what to say to that.

Justice turned back to the shield.

Barkfly was tearing at the rug with his paws.

Fenris shuffled on his feet, crossed and uncrossed his arms, and then came out with it. “You said that Anders attended the Chantry fundraiser with the primary intention of speaking to me, regardless of what else he claimed.”

After the thoroughly bizarre altercation in the Hanged Man, Fenris had intended to give the mage a wide berth. Keep him safely at arm’s length. He hadn’t been doing a very good job of it tonight, admittedly. And his resolve had weakened substantially when Sebastian disappeared, Hawke and Aveline were otherwise occupied, and there seemed to be no one else at the party that was even slightly pleasurable company to keep. But perhaps he was not entirely to blame for this turn of events, if the mage had come to the fundraiser with aims antithetical to Fenris’s own.

Justice’s eyes flashed. “Yes, I will make it known to Anders that his deception was uncalled for,” he promised. “He was confused by your behaviour at the tavern the other night, and wished an opportunity to discuss it with you.” Justice scowled and looked ponderously to the side. “Although it was very odd. He spoke with you much of the night and failed to bring up the pertinent aspects of his desired conversation entirely.”

Fenris huffed. “No doubt he wished to lull me into a false sense of security before making his intentions clear.”

Justice made a sound that Fenris was startled to realise was a gasp. “Another deception!” he announced. “I apologise for not realising it myself, mortal. Anders will have a lot to answer for, when he awakens.”

Fenris snorted. This demon was so dramatic. “And I suppose it was also deception to pretend I only brought you here as a favour to Hawke, and not because I intended to investigate what the mage considered so important to speak with me about he was willing attend a party full of templars?”

“Deception,” Justice said darkly. “Mortals are far too prone to it. But if Anders has deceived you, and you have deceived me, perhaps we are even. Anders and I are one. I do not mind paying for his crime.”

“An eye for an eye?”

“We were not speaking of eyes?” Justice seemed confused.

“Retribution,” Fenris clarified, “it is your idea of justice?”

Justice frowned. “I do not know as of late,” he admitted. “I will think on the matter.”

He seemed to do so for the rest of the way to the study, and even as Fenris directed him to the small circle of plush armchairs at the centre of the room.

Barkfly hastened to the cushion set out for him at the side of the study, and spun in a circle until he was bedded down in a tightly wound ball.

Fenris double checked the enchantments on the room that kept it comfortably warm and well lit, and then bar cabinet at the entrance to the room. Atop of it, there a pitcher of cold coffee, jars of sugar and honey, and a basket of cookies covered with a napkin. But Fenris bent down to dig through the cabinet’s interior and retrieved a glass and a decanter filled with murky brown dessert wine. He piled them in his arms and considered grabbing a book from the shelves that lined the room, as was his usual habit, before dismissing the idea. He was getting tired, had drunk enough that it had thankfully begun to dull the sensation of his lyrium brands, and there were things he still had yet to discuss.

Justice was sitting stiffly in his armchair, frowning intermittently at things, when Fenris approached. He took his own seat, opposite Justice and, still juggling the glass and decanter in his hands, used his foot to drag the side table that sat next to the armchair out in front of him, so it was between him and the demon like a barrier. He set the glass and decanter atop them, and paused a moment.

His gauntlets were partly bare on the underside, so even with them on he could feel and grip with some amount of dexterity, but-

Fenris cursed again, as he ripped the stupid things off his hands. He laid them neatly on the stand, and reached to pour himself a glass from the decanter. _Stupid._ If the demon wanted to kill him, a pair of gauntlets and a bit of furniture between them wasn’t about to stop him. Just like the pair of gauntlets had done nothing to save Fenris from his own stupidity.

Fenris took a steadying gulp of his wine and pointed across at Justice. Alright- “What does the mage want to say to me?” he demanded. “Talk, demon.”

Justice snapped from his reverie and bristled immediately. “I am not a demon. And I will not speak on Anders’s behalf. You should confront him on the matter when he awakens.” His face seemed to soften. “But do not be concerned. Neither I nor he bear you any ill will.”

Fenris did not find this at all reassuring.

Justice did not appear to be done though. “But I would have you know, I advised against this course of action,” he declared. “These kinds of relationships that mortals have – they are a distraction. Anders and I have a cause, and promises we have made to one another. It is very consuming work, and we cannot be separated from it. And I have made it clear to Anders that a proper mortal relationship requires a certain level of care and commitment. One I am not sure either of us is able to provide.” He shook his head again. “Keenan… Kristoff… Many in the Wardens believed they could have a cause and a family, and failed both in the end.”

Fenris sunk deeper into the armchair. No, this was not at all reassuring.

“In any case, Anders and I have work we’re behind on,” Justice grumbled. “We should not be gallivanting about at parties.”

“You have already possessed him,” Fenris reminded. “If you were so against him attending tonight’s festivities, why not just stop him?”

“You would have me puppet him around like some wayward demon?!” Justice bubbled with affront. “It is Anders’s body. I would not force him to act against his own decisions, even if I disagree with them.”

Fenris snorted. He was pretty sure this ‘Justice’ was full of it. Had that not been exactly what the demon did a few years back, when he tried to attack the mage girl they had been trying to save?

But although Fenris didn’t trust the demon, it was… preferable that he attempt to hold himself to some moral standard and fall short, than he not try at all.

Fenris drained his glass of wine, thick and fruity with sugar and sediment, and poured himself another from the decanter.

Justice was silent, still frowning, but down at his own hands this time. After a moment, he spoke once more. “I apologise. You have caught me in my own deceit. Not long ago, I was not even capable of such… It is true I did not bar Anders from attending this banquet because forcing him to do otherwise would be unjust. But I also did not attempt to persuade him otherwise as strenuously as I should have.”

“Oh?” Fenris raised his eyebrow critically. _Was this self-awareness? More self-awareness than the mage himself had ever shown?_

Justice looked very lost in the depth of the armchair. “You may be correct in your estimation of me after all, elf. Sometimes I…” he hesitated. “Sometimes I find myself caring for Anders’s happiness more than I care about what is just. It is very concerning.”

He admitted this with all the gravity of a repentant sinner.

Fenris did find it concerning. He knew very personally the horrors one could carry out in the name of care for another. He had spent years ripping and shredding every trace of that affection from his heart. It had been painful. It had been necessary.

But there was something about this that made him sad, perhaps even defiant. There were other sympathies he’d severed himself from before – how he felt for the slaves he’d seen sacrificed, or the Fog Warriors he’d slain, or even his sister, from what he could read between the lines of her letters. Should he not have been less eager to cut out and bottle away those affections?

Was the world not brighter for being close to people like Hawke and Sebastian and Isabela?

“I do not think you should be so eager to excise that part of yourself,” Fenris found himself saying. He bit his lip momentarily, but even that could not prevent him from being out with it. “Spirit,” he addressed his message.

Justice had nothing to say to this in an immediate sense. He only furrowed Anders’s brow in concentration.

Some of the tension left the room.

After a moment Justice said this: “I am often envious of the time that Anders has to pursue his own self. And now that I have time in this body to do as I will, I find I do not know how to spend it. What should I do?”

Fenris shrugged and poured himself another drink from the decanter. “Drink. Sit. Relax.” His heart felt light and breezy, and a smile tugged on his lip. “Hope, for my sake, that whatever madness has overtaken me will be gone by the morning.” Because he was chatting with demons and spirits and entertaining mages and being very foolish indeed.

Fenris swirled the wine in his glass. And, unbeknownst to him, it was just like the way Hawke swirled Sebastian around the dance floor of the fundraiser. Unbeknownst to him it was just the way the lucky raffle ticket Sebastian had bought him swirled in the till, ready to be drawn.

All Fenris knew was that when the decanter was empty and Anders finally came to, it was with his head in his hands. Hands still covered in dried gore from the confrontation with the Bloodragers.

“Maker, what did I do?” Anders whispered. He pulled back a little to examine the frayed edges of his coat’s sleeves, where Justice had burned through them. “What did _we_ do? What do I have to regret this time?”

Fenris did not know the answer to that and did not care to guess. He had enough of his own regrets without poring over Anders’s. “Mage, why did you attend the Chantry fundraiser tonight?”

“Hawke was getting me leftovers to pass around Darktown,” he answered immediately. Immediately and defensively.

“Truly?” Fenris deadpanned. He pushed aside the side table separating them and pressed himself to his feet. Not as wobbly as they rightly should have been. “So you didn’t attend to spend time with me?”

“I-” Anders seemed to go a very ugly shade of puce. “Maker, what did he make me admit to? Look, it’s not- I’m not being a creep, honest.”

“Mage,” Fenris sighed. He walked the handful of steps between their armchairs. “Mage, your words only dig your grave deeper. You can stop talking at any time.”

Anders snorted and shook his head in protest. “I think you’ll find I ca-” But he quieted quite effectively, as Fenris cupped his cheeks.

The mage had dark lines under his eyes, Fenris noticed. And Fenris smoothed them softly with his thumbs, before leaning down for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Anders loses two dozen hands of Diamondback and still somehow comes out on top.


End file.
